


Discomforting

by Gabrielle



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabrielle/pseuds/Gabrielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*Set between Seasons Five and Six.* They're lost and hurting without Buffy. One of them has the answer to at least some of what ails them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discomforting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lilbreck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilbreck/gifts).



Discomforting  
  
  
  
He’s been watching her lately. Willow. Not sure why, or he wasn’t. No, he still isn’t, not really. Maybe he would be if he crawled out of the bottle for any length of time, but that’s not likely. He still misses Buffy too much.  
  
Because she’s dead, isn’t she? Not his kind o’ dead, but the real kind – the forever kind – the kind where she’s staying put in a grave with a headstone inscribed with some bollocks her friends concocted, carefully shielded from prying eyes by some magic trick of Willow’s. He has to admit he’s grateful for that. His gut twists at the thought of demons desecrating that sacred space.  
  
Another swig from that bottle of Jack he’s holding, the latest in a long line that don’t hold nearly enough, and his thoughts are comfortably blurred.  
  
Or maybe not so comfortably. They used to be, but lately… yeah, lately… lately they’ve been following his eyes straight to her – to Willow.  
  
She’s an enigma, that one, or he tells himself that must be what it is. But it’s not that, is it? Because she’s not that bloody mysterious, is she? And even if she was, why the hell would he care? He’s never cared much before. Well, ‘cept for that first time he saw her at the Bronze… and the time he kidnapped her and Harris… and that night in her dorm room… and…   
  
Oh hell. All right, he has a long and storied history with the chit and she’s not just some annoying background character in his life as a chipped vampire hopelessly in love with a Slayer. How does that explain why he finds himself sticking close to her on patrol, being just that little bit more interested in what she has to say – and enjoying it when the talk turns more and more frequently to arguments between her and her girlfriend? What does it mean that he notices just how her hair falls across her face when she’s deep into research, how her left eye droops a bit more than her right when she’s tired… and how much moonlight becomes her?  
  
It can’t be what it seems like because his heart’s still in the grave of the girl whose town they’re all fighting like mad to keep safe.  
  
“I told Dawn I’d check on you.” Spike almost drops the empty bottle he’s still holding at the sound of that voice. How the devil did she get in here without him realizing it? He’s a demon! No human’s supposed to be able to get the drop on him.   
  
But then again, she’s not your average human. “Hello, witch,” he greets her in as clear and sober a voice as he can manage. Lucky thing she can’t do that telepathy trick on him, not yet, anyway. What will she be capable of when she gets all the kinks worked out?  
  
“You’re drunk,” she accuses, so it’s obvious he’s lost his talent for dissimulation, or misplaced it somewhere – probably inside one of the many bottles he’s crawled inside these past weeks.   
  
No real point in denying it, but he’s never needed a reason to be disagreeable. “Am not.” If he sounds like a petulant toddler… well, he’s on his twentieth childhood, that’s all.   
  
Naturally, she goes all spoilsport and refuses to play. “I’m not here to argue with you. I’m just here… Dawn’s been worried about you.” She sighs and even with vision fogged by alcohol, he can see the lines of fatigue around her eyes and the care and worry behind them. Guilt rears its ugly head, because Bit shouldn’t be fretting about him… and Willow should be home resting instead of being out on this errand.  
  
“She doesn’t need to fuss. I’m fine.” He sits heavily on his ratty couch because he can be a lot more convincing if there’s no chance of stumbling and he sets the bottle gingerly on the ground. Is there any chance Willow won’t notice it’s one of many, strewn about willy-nilly?  
  
Her eyes scan the dimly lit room and, since what light there is reflects off of all that glass – yeah, she notices. But if he was expecting a lecture, it’s not what he gets. Instead, she sits down beside him and puts her hand on his knee. He almost jumps at the jolt he feels, but luckily he manages to suppress his reaction. After all, it’s only because no one’s touched him at all in so long. That’s it. That has to be it.  
  
She’s fixing him with a gaze so full of compassion… if he could look away, he could, but her eyes have a power like Drusilla’s thrall, even if he knows she’s not using magic. “You miss her, don’t you?” Those eyes of hers are almost too full of emotion. “I think we forget that sometimes and… I’m sorry.” Her grip on his knee tightens and he can’t stop himself from putting his hand over hers.  
  
“’s’okay. Not really one of you, am I?” Looks like he’s not so well-marinated that he can’t play games never meant for children.  
  
Finally, it seems he’s got the advantage. “That’s silly, Spike. Of course you’re one of us.”  
  
Okay, maybe it _is_ a game, but her words still warm him, so there’s some sort of honesty in the mix after all. What the hell is happening to him? “Ta, pet,” he says without thinking.  
  
She thinks he’s brushing her off. “I mean it.” Her voice brims with sympathy like to spill over her tongue and onto his decrepit couch. “If Buffy could see…” She stops, fearful of stepping on his emotional toes, but…  
  
It isn’t true, is it? How bizarre is it that he can see the fiction in the fairy tale he’s been telling himself since the torch he’s been carrying first flamed to life only after someone else believes it? But he knows – finally and clearly – as the liquor and lies burn away leaving only the harshest reality: Buffy didn’t love him and she never would have. If she’s looking down from Slayer-heaven, maybe she’s grateful he’s still lending a hand, but she doesn’t for one minute regret that she never gave him a chance. He’ll always be a monster to her – a tame, helpful monster at times, perhaps, but always a soulless thing and never a man she could have loved.  
  
Now the worms are here and they feast like piranhas on the flesh of his departed dream. It doesn’t matter, though, because another one’s been gestating while the one he lost sickened and died.   
  
“How are you holding up?” he asks, and she’ll think it’s a non sequitur, he knows.   
  
“I’m fine.” She’s no hand at lying, but whether he should let her get by with it for a bit is the question.  
  
He doesn’t. “Maybe the others’ll fall for that, but you’re not foolin’ me.”  
  
Perhaps he should have played his cards differently, because she’s angry, or at least annoyed. “I’m fine, Spike, okay?” Of course, she has to know that her reaction only proves that he’s right – she’s anything but fine.  
  
“Didn’t mean to upset ya.” His tone is all conciliatory treacle as he frantically hopes she won’t get up and leave.  
  
She doesn’t. Instead, she sighs and says, “It’s okay.” Her hand stays under his and he can’t stop himself from thinking it belongs there. “I really am fine, it’s just…”   
  
There’s a long pause and he decides to take a chance. “You can talk to me you know. Unbiased listener and all.” Ha! That last bit’s a lie, not that she’d know.   
  
No, she has no idea, does she? And he’s a far better liar than he’s been giving himself credit for lately, because she doesn’t see one bit of the truth as she searches his eyes. At least he doesn’t think so, that’s more logical than the secret hope he’s nursing that she doesn’t care. “It’s just… Tara doesn’t get it.”  
  
Oh how he hopes she means that more than just metaphorically, which she might because, come to think of it, they haven’t smelled like each other ‘that way’ in a while. Glory hallelujah, that’s all he has to say, and if it’s a shock, well, luckily he’s at least drunk enough to handle that someone besides Buffy is getting his borrowed blood pumping. “What doesn’t she get?”   
  
“The…” There’s a pause and then the words pour forth. “She thinks I’m using too much magic. But she doesn’t understand. What are we supposed to do? Buffy’s gone. Yes, there’s the ‘bot – and I think we’ve all forgiven you for having it made now – but she’s not the same as a real Slayer. Without magic…” She bursts into tears as Spike pulls her into his arms and takes it all in.  
  
Even without the feelings he’s developed, he’d be bloody annoyed with Tara. Because Willow’s got a point, doesn’t she? What the hell would happen without her magic? Everything Buffy lived and died for would be well and truly gone.   
  
Willow’s head is on his shoulder now and he’s glad he can be honest. “We’d be lost without you.” Then he does something even he didn’t expect and plants a kiss on the top her head. Was it a mistake? Too late now, isn’t it?  
  
But she doesn’t seem to have even noticed; she’s lost in the pain she’s finally owning. “Is it enough? I mean is it? Because it doesn’t feel like it. The house isn’t clean enough and Dawn is so sad and it feels like we’re fighting more demons than ever and… Giles. He’s talking about going back to England. I keep trying and trying, but it’s all falling apart. I don’t think I ever realized how amazing Buffy was until now. I miss her Spike. We need her. Why did she have to die?”  
  
Her sobbing has turned to a gut-wrenching wail and it’s a good thing she’s stopped trying to talk because he’d never be able to understand her. Wrapping his arms tight ‘round her, he does the best he can to comfort her. “There, there.” He’d say more, but she can’t hear him anyway. Not now.   
  
William, that bloody awful poet, is whispering in his ear all the things he’d like to tell her, though, and he’s asking himself: why now? Why so suddenly? Then again, is it all that sudden? Or has she always been there, waiting, biding her time until he could tear himself away from the dream of winning a girl away from that bastard, Angel?  
  
“It was her time,” he says at last, when Willow’s crying is quieter and less violent. “Death was her gift. Know that doesn’t make much sense, not to the people who love her, but… guess she earned some rest after all is said and done, didn’t she?” He feels Willow nod against his chest. She’s listening to him, not just cocooning in her grief, and maybe he’s reading too much into that, but it emboldens him to say more. “Don’t you ever doubt that you’re amazing yourself. Wherever she is, I know Buffy sees how much you’re doing for everyone, and she’s glad of it – loves you for it – same as…the rest of us do.” Why the devil did he even say that last bit? And ‘love’? No, not yet. He’s not one bit ready for that. Bloody hell. When will the universe give him a soddin’ break?  
  
This time it’s the shake of a head he can feel before she pulls back and looks up into his face. “It’s not enough. How can it be when everything’s falling apart?” Damn if she isn’t gazing into his eyes as if she expects him to have the answer. He wishes he did, because he’d give it to her. Hell, he’d give her anything she could possibly want if she would just look at him like that forevermore. No one’s ever asked as much from him, and that means she thinks he’s got the what for to give it to her, now doesn’t it?   
  
Maybe he has it at that because words come and they reveal thoughts he hadn’t known had been going on somewhere in the clear light beneath the drunken haze in which he’s been wont to shroud himself. “Buffy was somethin’, but she never did it by herself. She had Giles and Joyce and… _you_ backin’ her up, and yeah, she was the Slayer, to boot. You? You’re goin’ it alone and I don’t see any of that lot steppin’ in to fill the void. Rupert’s talkin’ about goin’ back to poor old England? Some Watcher. Some sacred duty. And Tara? What the hell is she doin’ besides maybe a sinkful of dishes now and again, I’d like to know?”  
  
If she’s not just looking into his eyes, but seeing, really seeing, what’s there… but she must not be because she’s not running. Or is she and deep down she needs what he’s offering? Either way, he keeps talking. “You’re extraordinary. I wish you realized…”  
  
It’s what he sees – or imagines he sees – in her eyes that emboldens him to do what he does next. Leaning down, he kisses her. It’s a soft kiss, but it’s no chaste peck and there’s no mistaking it for friendly tribute. Yet, wonder of wonders, while she pulls back far too soon for his liking, she doesn’t leave – doesn’t even get up from her perch on the couch beside him.  
  
He’s not going to let her talk this into displaced longing for Buffy or whatever psycho-babble nonsense is brewing in that overactive brain of hers. He’s reminded of what he once told Angel and Buffy long ago, words he should have heeded more closely in recent months, but – better late than never. Gently, but firmly, he pulls her to him again for another kiss.  
  
There was no mistaking the nature of the first, but this one carries intent far more clearly in its intensity, and his hands move over her back and sides, brushing the sides of her breasts ever so slightly as he hardens at the warmth and sweetness of her.   
  
This one could be his, couldn’t she? Couldn’t she? Because from where he’s sitting, there’s a vacancy sign on that cozy nest in her heart that Tara has done bugger all to tend, and unlike those late Juliets to a certain gel-addicted Romeo, she’s wise enough to know the difference between real love and schoolgirl stickjaw. Maybe now, finally, he does too.  
  
A moment later and she’s on her back underneath him, a moment of panic setting in. “Spike?”   
  
“Shh,” he soothes, “Let me give you what you need, love. That’s all this has to be.” What a damn liar, but it works, doesn’t it? Because she gives in, letting him guide them back to the gates of where they were going – passion. “You’re wonderful,” he breathes, and that too seems to do the trick. Now, though, he lets his lips tell their tales in a different way, worshipping each patch of skin he uncovers as he slowly disrobes her.  
  
Gods, but she’s beautiful. Pale as he is, but nothing like his kind. She glows like moonlight and the promise of life and he wishes he could get a proper look at her – all of her. Next time, he promises himself.   
  
There _will_ be a next time; he’s going to make sure of that. Already he’s addicted to the taste of her skin and the hitch in her breath when he finds a sensitive spot. There are lots of those. Damned if he can remember ever being with anyone so responsive to touch as this girl. How long has it been since anyone’s really paid attention to her?  
  
He can sense an emerging protest and his lips return to hers, stopping it in its tracks. He knows she doesn’t really mean it, knows any objection she raises will be strictly the rote of a good girl who believes she should be faithful even to one who isn’t doing right by her.   
  
And that stuttering bitch-witch isn’t doing right by his girl – because that’s who she is – one bit. Not with the day to day and sure as hell not in the bedroom. Willow is drinking up his attentions like hungry soil greeting rain after a long drought.  
  
She gives as good as she gets as well. How could anyone not lock this girl up in the bedroom for days on end? Because she’s a wonder. Hands that have learned his own body with a skill he almost envies, soft lips against his neck – protests forgotten as blunt teeth nip skin, and the scent of her…   
  
Of course, he longs to move down her body and taste her ‘til she forgets her own name, but he’s mindful that she’s been with a girl for awhile now and he might do his cause better service if he reminds her of something she’s been completely without for a long time. She’s ready, so he undoes his jeans, spreads her legs, and guides himself inside.  
  
Gods below, the heat of her. She’s perfection. Tight, hot perfection. Her gasp as he enters her is music and if it carries a tinge of remorse, he’ll overcome that. He knows what he’s about, as she’s learning from the way he moves inside her, carrying her with him to ecstasy he’s not sure he’s ever known before – not even those nights… No, he’s not thinking of those nights. That bastard and his lies won’t ruin this.  
  
Because this? This is pure. This is his – because Willow will be, and soon. Tara’s no match for him. Hell, she barely exists. Not like him… not like Willow.  
  
He gives his mind over completely to this union, reveling in the way she’s moving against him now, wordless cries urging him on, those agile fingers caressing him, telling him with every movement that she knows whose body this is and isn’t thinking of anyone else.  
  
That last is almost enough to carry him over the edge but he’s not getting there without her. His fingers do some work of their own and when he cries out his release, it’s mingled with her screams to create a beauty greater than any poetry William ever dreamt of writing.  
  
The rapture of it seems to go on and on, but at last he does come down from that glorious high and he gazes into her eyes.  
  
Her eyes full of tears.  
  
He should have expected this, but it still brings sharp pain to a heart that Buffy used to say was incapable of sensation. “It’s all right, pet,” he says, hoping she’ll stay and allow him to comfort her even as she slips out from beneath him and gathers her clothes. He should have known better. Her soft-heartedness – it’s one of the things for which he loves her best, but like the most beautiful roses, its branches are heavy with thorns. The guilt about her so-called girlfriend was bound to rear its head no matter how much ecstasy he brought her.   
  
“This wasn’t cheating,” he lies, giving the words more conviction than he’s often given to the honest truth.  
  
“What was it then?” she asks in a hiccuping, tear-drenched voice that makes him long to hold her and kiss away each drop that falls.   
  
If only he could tell her the truth, but no, he lies again. “Comfort. That’s all.” While a part of him is hurt by what he sees in her eyes… the wiser part of him congratulates him on his well-chosen words. Because she relaxes fractionally, the rationalization sinking into that too-logical brain of hers.   
  
She’s dressed now and at the door, but she turns back and looks at him once more, eyes kind and full of care for just a moment. “Bye,” she says softly, as if she hates herself for not saying more. Yeah, there’s something there.  
  
She’ll be back. He knows it. Because she needs what he has to give – not comfort, not comfort at all.   
  
When she’s ready, when she looks around and realizes that there’s only one person in this whole town who’s really there for her, who understands her and sees her for who she is…  
  
Just be patient, Spike, my boy. Your girl will be home soon.  
  
  
  
The End.


End file.
